


Who Shall Say that Fortune Grieves Him?

by sentimental_animals



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content, manor house au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5313899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentimental_animals/pseuds/sentimental_animals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Palmer falls in love with everyone he meets. Harlan, the kitchen boy, barely has the inclination towards love, and certainly doesn't think he has the time. But the house will place them where they need to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Partial Fancy

**Author's Note:**

> Set before the lovely [Upton Manners](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5044633/chapters/11598595).

Mr. Harlan crowed to all creation about his Earl. He had a position in the house! He’d even sleep there, share a room with some hallboy or other. His boy, moving up in the world!

Harlan knew his place: it was in the field with the sheep, or in the stables with the horses. And his boy would have a better place, and his boy after him, if he could ever see his way clear to marry.

Earl would work in the house, sleep in the house. Harlan didn’t know if his son would be close enough to the earth for the fae to gift him with a child, didn’t even remember his own arrival. Harlan remembered it clear as day, though, the little raven-haired child toddling out of the woods, chasing a moth. “Oh, he’s mine,” he assured the groundskeeper. “I saw ‘im first.” 

 

Earl had his instructions, and his sleeping quarters, and his father’s advice. _Keep yer head down, do as you’re told, and wait. Your quality will shine through soon enough._ His father also told him to be respectful, mindful of standards, cautious.

His father scrubbed him up clean and stuffed him into his best clothes. Earl considered reminding him that he wasn’t a child anymore, but decided it was better to let him have this last chance, to make sure he’d done everything he could before he sent his boy out into the world. 

“Model your personal behavior on your betters,” he’d said, and it took Earl a second to process the sentence. He felt lightheaded, both proud and terrified. The feelings swirled together in the pit of his stomach. The house seemed to loom over him, and he wasn’t sure if it was as threat or protector, and that was confusing.

A dark, well-built young man in a footman’s livery stalked past, his face a frustrated storm, butler close at his side.

“‘Cept him,” his father said, exaggerating graveness, then laughed. “Cecil’s a good boy, but not built for service.”

Earl remembered him all knees and elbows, trying and failing to climb trees, chasing squirrels and picking flowers. He’d been everyone’s child and no one’s, and he grew up in the shadow of the big house as an excitable, dramatic boy who led the most fantastic games of make believe. 

Clearly all that running around the yard had done his legs a bit of good. He’d grown up, slipped effortlessly into the position of first footman and into the colorful and rather snug uniform that went with it. 

“Well, boy, stop gawking and get to it, I’m sure they’ve got something for you to scrub,” his father said, not unkindly. He took one last swipe at neatening Earl’s hair, then squeezed him tight. “You remember your old pa,” he said, “come down and see us on your days off.”

 

Burton drew himself up to his full height, in the vain hope that it would have any impact on Ortiz. “It has to happen. Let me train him.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, but is really the best choice? He barely tolerates being a footman,” Ortiz added grimly. “I don’t dislike him, I never have. He belongs...somewhere in the house. But he couldn’t possibly hold his own as a valet. Do you recall what happened last week, with--”

“I know. It’s going to be some work. A lot of work.” Burton considered the house for a second and suppressed a shudder. “Potentially dangerous work. But there isn’t really another choice, is there? You could train up footmen through the ranks for the rest of your natural life, and each and every one will--” _die_ , he wanted to say. But surely that was an exaggeration, wasn’t it? “The house will put him where he belongs when the time comes. Let me make him ready for it.”

“Mr. Burton.” Ortiz added titles when she was trying to get the last word. “The house does not have a will of its own. I will admit it’s--somewhat unusual. But the house did not _select_ Palmer out of all the other options, our _employer_ selected him because he has grown up into an attractive young man--”

“And just where did Palmer get to, anyway?” Burton said quietly.

“Yes, Mr. Burton?” The voice was a little unsteady, the footsteps stumbling a bit, as though he was only half expecting to be where he was. 

Burton smiled warmly at Ortiz. 

“I--” She gestured at the boy. “That’s not--” She stalked around her desk. “He--” She made a soft growling sound. “ _Fine_. But he is _your_ responsibility.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ortiz,” he said primly, and then lead the boy out of the room with a gesture.

“What’s happened?” Cecil asked. He sounded a little nervous, his voice pitched higher. “Has something gone wrong--with--”

Instead of finishing the sentence, he swallowed nervously. The dust kicked up last week still hadn’t settled fully. Burton refrained from answering until he had found a suitably private place.

“Cook,” he asked, “may we use your pantry?” But he’d already guided Cecil into the dark and shut the door. Asking was a formality; it was an unspoken tradition downstairs that discussions taking place in the pantry did not leave it. 

“I don’t--”

“Hush, boy,” Burton said. He spoke firmly, the way he assumed fathers talked to their sons. “You’re going to end up in the position whether you learn from me or not.”

“But Mr. Bur--”

“Do you want to learn how to do it correctly?”

Cecil opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked down towards the floor. “Yes, Mr. Burton,” he mumbled.

“Good. Lesson one. If you insist on being indiscreet--”

“It was just--”

“--keep your...activities below stairs. Do you understand me?”

He could not see the boy’s face, between the dim lighting and his downcast eyes, but it was fairly certain it was flushed dark, shining slightly. Probably chewing his lip. An expression he’d seen quite a bit of in the past week.

“Yes,” he said, and his voice was so small and so fretful that Burton didn’t have the heart to correct him. 

 

It was only a kiss.

Duties completed, Cecil perched on the edge of his bed and watched the candle flicker. 

Just one innocent little kiss--returned, requested, even! But unfortunately the visiting young duke’s valet was less enthusiastic about what he’d walked in on. And he’d almost lost his job (probably would have, if his employer hadn’t found him so useful, if he couldn’t _move_ through the house like he did) and it could have been worse, so much worse.

Consequences had always happened to other people. It had not occurred to him, before that moment when the world stopped, that they were real, that they could touch him. Sometimes it seemed like nothing was real at all, the world was so absurd--

He was sixteen and would be seventeen--well, soon. And he’d never been anywhere but this house, this land, these woods. He’d barely left the Vale, even, and life as he knew it had almost ended over one single tiny kiss. 

Love was nothing like the old romantic stories, the novels hidden away under his mattress for fear of confiscation. It was not steadfast and true, it was not an unbreakable bond. Even now he felt contempt replacing the sudden spark of fondness he’d felt for the young duke, who was scampering off free and clear, as far as Cecil could see. And how was that any fair?

He’d been lucky this time. He’d had a gift for escaping trouble, but this was close, nearly fatal. He wondered if, perhaps, this wasn’t the place for him after all.


	2. A Fond Kiss

Palmer had been gone for ages, it seemed. The house ate time, spat back sudden holidays and cold winter months that seemed to last longer than they should. Burton had crammed Palmer full of valeting experience and shoved him out into the world, hoping for the best, praying he’d be able to keep himself and his young master out of trouble on the continent. 

And Earl Harlan worked.

He scrubbed and scoured and organized, he slept little and tried hard. He was moved up, shared a room in the attic with the new footman, a quiet and somber fellow. Earl had the creakier bed, right under the drafty window, but he could just about see his father’s cottage when he looked out. 

His father was so proud he could have burst, it seemed; his son, assisting the cook! Trusted first to finish dinner for the servants, and then to prepare food for his Lordship. There were things he could do that he shouldn’t have been able to--no one makes a perfect crepe the first time, everyone loses a souffle or two. And where did the young man learn to cook anything at all, even the old English favorites?

But Old Harlan just smiled. His Earl was a quick study, he said. Smarter than his old man before he was twelve. And that was all he was prepared to say on the subject.

 

The new footman was smitten. Her name was Dana, he said softly, and she was beautiful. Some maid or other from town, sent off to Europe with some rich young lady or something. She hadn’t returned a single one of his letters. 

Earl frowned at his potatoes and said nothing. The roast, however, that was worth smiling about. A beautiful mountain in the oven, and Cook had trusted him with it himself, sitting on a stool and observing his work. 

Cook was growing old, and tired, and had discreetly been handing off favorite recipes and techniques to the kitchen boy. He’d kept a few in his pocket, though, things their employer was partial to, as insurance against an enforced retirement.

The footman waited by the serving dishes.

“Sorry, lad,” Earl said pleasantly, “if it’s advice you want, you’re in the wrong place.”

Footmen came and went; it often didn’t seem like there was any point to getting to know them personally when they’d be gone in a month or so. That was, he reflected, an awful thought. On the other hand, whenever this one left, he’d get the attic room to himself, and could claim the bed that didn’t creak. 

Maybe the footman would find this Dana and they’d run off together, get married. Isn’t that what normal people wanted? 

He’d tried romance once or twice, because it was what one did. He’d briefly courted a girl from town, before she reminded him that if anyone discovered their trysts she’d be the one with more to lose. She was a good lass, and he didn’t want to think of anything unfortunate befalling her, but he was far from inspired to put a ring on her finger. 

Failing that, he’d mostly stuck to awkward fumbling in dark corners or haylofts with such young men and women as were interested. They were mostly pleasant people, attractive and kind and worth listening to, but the delightful shudder of love never crept higher than his belt.

He smiled again at the footman, nodded towards a finished dish. One of the nice things about having footmen about the place was they were never terribly difficult to look at.

If love grew in spring, Earl supposed he lived his life in the vital, hot throb of summer. Of course, soon it would be fall. 

 

Summer came and went, and so did the footman; his mother took ill and he’d left to care for her and his father’s farm. Earl slowly took over more and more of cook’s duties, his small smile an unspoken reassurance that he had no aim towards premature promotion. He shifted his things to the other side of the attic room, away from the autumnal chill creeping in the small window at night. 

There was a small collection of novels shoved under the mattress, on that side. Had they belonged to the footman? Could the boy even read?

But he was a fastidious sort, he would have taken them with him if they were his. No, these had to have been Palmer’s. This was just the type of emotional drivel he would have been drawn to.

 

The cause was immaterial, the movement made no sense, and it didn’t matter. One moment he was _there_ , scruffy and embarrassed and slightly in need of a shave, the next he was in the butler’s pantry, getting a once over from Burton.

“There you are,” he mumbled. “But look at the state of you! Get yourself cleaned up, Palmer, you can’t serve at table like that!”

Cecil had always been one to question his good fortune. He’d heard the voice in the back of his head moving him around for years, felt it pull him where he was wanted. He supposed Burton had asked for him. Had he sensed Cecil’s peril, his discomfort in that cell in Florence? Did Burton know where he’d pulled Cecil away from?

He climbed the servant’s stairs slowly, ruffling a hand through his probably-awful hair. He’d never wanted to sleep in the attic less than he did right now. There was a reasonable amount of privacy, yes, and he was usually the last one to get displaced for visiting servants, because who wanted to climb all those stairs?

Right now, Cecil, dust-covered and exhausted, was the last person who wanted to climb all those stairs.

He opened the door, crossed the room in a stagger that was only slightly exaggerated, flopped onto his bed and threw his arm over his eyes. 

“Hey--” said a voice, “That’s my--”

The voice stopped.

“Oh, hullo, Earl,” Cecil groaned. 

“Cecil? Where the hell have you--it’s been--”

“I know, I know,” he mumbled, “I’m a mess. I’ve been sent upstairs to clean up before dinner service.”

“Yes but--you--” Earl threw his hands up. “That’s my bed.”

Cecil pulled his arm away and peered at Earl. “No, I’m fairly sure this one is mine.” He hadn’t been--where _had_ he been? In any event, he certainly hadn’t been out of the room long enough to forget which bed was his. 

“Palmer, all my things are over there.” There was just a hint of whine in Earl’s voice. Just a bit. 

Cecil pushed himself up on his elbows and smiled roguishly. “We could always share it, then. These things aren’t built for two, but we could find a way.”

Earl glared like a champion. He’d always had a good humor; it turned in an instant, but turned back just as quickly, it seemed. 

“I have to get to the kitchen,” he said icily. And then, warmer, with a half smile, “Welcome home, Palmer.”

 

September passed in a whirlwind; Cecil had a brief, messy fling with a visiting valet; when the letters finally tapered off he’d cried, quietly, in his bed.

Earl’s bed (back under the window, curse Cecil to hell) creaked when he stood up, crossed the dark room to perch awkwardly on the edge of Cecil’s mattress. “You, uh, you alright then?” he asked, flatly, aware of the absurdity of what he was saying.

Cecil sniffed hugely and sat up; in the dimness Earl could see him scrub the heel of his hand over his streaming eyes. “I don’t know what I _did_ ,” he said. “I loved him as well as I could--I wrote him every week like I said I would, and each response was shorter, and shorter, and then--” He choked, perhaps trying to swallow a sob, and set his forehead gently against Earl’s shoulder. “I loved him as well as I could,” he said again, weakly.

Earl’s father grew ill round the middle of the month, and Earl spent his half days down at the cottage, feeding him soup and tea and shoving old rags into the cracks in the window frames. Cecil came down once or twice with some sort of balm to soothe his ragged cough and clear his sinuses. When asked what it was, he stared blankly at Earl, blinked, and then offered a small and confused smile.

October brought house guests and a new stable boy, one with a crass mouth Earl just had to shut. They’d crept off together, once in the hayloft, a couple-few times in the woods, and Cecil had insinuated things when he noticed the scratch marks running down Earl’s back. 

“I’m sure you have plenty of business of your own to mind,” he’d said evenly, but risked a smile over his shoulder. Cecil bumped him intentionally on his way out the door, snickering.

The end of the month turned very cold, very quickly; Earl’s bed creaked when Cecil crawled in alongside him.

“Fuck, Palmer, your feet are like ice,” he whispered, but he shifted over and let him under the blanket and tried to keep himself away from the shivering body in his bed. 

Earl met a lady’s maid in November, one who wasn’t keen on getting herself into trouble, she said, but had other options for quiet, dark corridors. She bit, though.

“I’m sure the countess’ girl had absolutely nothing to do with this?” Cecil said, smirking, as he dabbed something soothing onto the suck marks on Earl’s neck. “This’ll bring down the redness at least. Unfortunately, you’re fair, so you’ll be showing it for a few days. The freckles will help mask it after that.”

“How do you know all that?” Earl said, having suffered several years of ill-gotten markings from lovers he’d struggled to hide under collars and sleeves.

“Burton would have killed me if I showed up to serve at table with lovebites all down my neck,” Cecil said coyly.

That lady's maid had come to the house with another servant, one Cecil had known previously and, judging by his moping, did not know on this visit.

“Cecil, I must ask,” Earl said finally, “have you bedded every interested man who’s passed our threshold?”

Cecil, insulted, had thrown his pillow across the room and stormed out in a huff; he was chilly in the kitchen, taking plates upstairs to serve, and had ignored Earl until lights-out.

“I’ve never been with anyone I haven’t loved,” he said later, in the dark, when Earl was on the edge of sleep. “But I fall in love very quickly, Earl--very easily.”

“D’you love that tailor comes ‘round every month?” Earl asked. 

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. 

“But you want to be with the boy who’s come with the countess? Don’t you--”

“Have you never loved more than one person?” Cecil asked, and his voice was quieter, now. Hurt, or something else. 

Earl had never loved anyone like _that_ at all, and had been glad of it, considering all the grief it caused Cecil. But a moment later Earl was on his feet, shuffling into the other bed and putting his arms around Cecil. “It’s cold there under the window,” he said, and that was, technically, true.

 

“What was it like?” Earl asked, first Friday in December, when rain beat hard against the window.

Cecil paused, shirt half unbuttoned, and then carried on with dressing, gaze steadily forward.

“I saw it, you know.” 

It would have been impossible not to; the very second that baron’s soon-to-be-married son had stepped out of the carriage, Cecil went rigid, eyes all wide and lips slightly parted. He was a nicely turned young man, certainly, and Earl wouldn’t have turned down an hour or two alone with him, but Cecil, oh, Cecil was clearly smitten, had to be asked twice if he’d do for the man, traveling without a valet of his own.

Cecil swallowed and opened his mouth to speak, but he paused for a second before he said, “It’s like being struck by lightning, I’d imagine. First I was all hot and dazed...but then the aching started.”

“Aching?” 

“Yes. Can you imagine,” Cecil said, sliding into his jacket, “looking at beauty like that three times a day for four days and knowing an errant touch could be the end of you?”

Earl slipped his feet into his shoes without taking his eyes off Cecil. “So you won’t pursue it, then?”

“Are you mad? That’s a lesson I learned right quick, Earl,” he said, “I’d be fired come morning, if not turned over to the law. Never, ever go for a man who hasn’t got as much to lose as you do.” Cecil shuddered slightly. “I’ll not see myself hanged while he skips away to his new bride, no matter how strongly I feel.”

On the second night of the visit, Cecil’s quiet tears were not quiet enough, and within an hour of lights out he crept into Earl’s bed without even bothering with pretense.

“You must think this is terribly funny,” he hissed, “foolish Cecil, crying himself to sleep over a man who can hardly remember his name.”

“Cecil,” Earl whispered, “if you came to me for comfort, just say so.”

His mouth was rough, rougher than Earl would have expected it to be. But he only wondered about that for a moment before he parted his lips, quietly accepting the hesitant press of Cecil’s tongue. 

Cecil pulled himself closer, chest flush against Earl’s, and his skin was hot through his nightshirt, though the hands in Earl’s hair were cold. The temptation was overwhelming. He could have grabbed Cecil’s backside and pulled him close, pressing into him, rutting rough and needy against each other like desperate creatures; he could have slid down under the blanket and pulled aside his clothing, kissing and licking, drawing Cecil into his mouth, feel the hot weight of him against his tongue.

The bed creaked as he was pushed onto his back, and Cecil was on him, moaning quietly into the kiss and oh, the weight and press of his body was too much. Earl’s hips bucked up against him once before he was able to restrain himself. 

Cecil was vulnerable. He was hurt and needing and it would be _wrong_ to ask for more than he was willing to offer himself. Earl broke the kiss, gasping slightly, and brushed soft, dark hair off Cecil’s forehead. 

“I’m sorry, Earlybird,” he said. Neither of them mentioned the old nickname, one he hadn’t used in years, but when Cecil snuggled close into the curve of his body, Earl didn’t pull away.


	3. While the Star of Hope She Leaves Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some non-explicit sexual content at the end there.

_Cecil had always liked fall. It was brisk and expectant, the air tight in his chest while nature prepared for what was to come. He liked the shorter days, cozy overcast evenings, chilly nights before the winter bitterness set it._

_But he’d never liked getting caught in the rain._

_Earl was outside all the time, and would generally shelter in place until the worst of it passed. This was not Cecil’s preferred solution. Cecil, Earl said, was “prim”; he’d once used the word “prissy” and gotten himself punched for it._

_“It’s absolutely wretched,” Cecil said once, staring out from under the pine boughs. It was dry enough until something moved overhead, sprinkling them with icy drops. “We’re going to drown, Earlybird.”_

_He huddled into his coat, shivering and miserable. “This is it,” he went on, “this is how we die.”_

_“Don’t be grim,” Earl muttered, “it’ll pass.”_

_“Then we catch a chill and die in our beds,” Cecil whined._

_“No one is dying,” Earl said evenly. “‘cept you if you don’t knock it off.”_

_Cecil felt like crying. But he was too old to cry. The time, Mrs. Ortiz said, had long since passed for Cecil to learn to control himself._

_She had not told him how to tolerate the sudden swell of feeling in his chest, thick and heavy like molasses, who to talk to when he was fretful, in the moments before panic. He wondered, sometimes, if everyone felt like this._

_He eyed Earl sideways. He bet Earlybird didn’t. Earl was even-tempered and moderate, always had been. He was, in many ways, a small, dark-haired copy of his father._

_Maybe that was it; he didn’t have a father, and the best his mother could do for him was offer him to the sanctuary of the house. The whole household wanted Cecil to be grown, but no one had ever taught him how._

_He leaned against the trunk of the tree and tried not to shiver or sniffle. He had to control himself. He had to have faith. And if there was anyone he could have faith in it was Earl, steady as the rise and set of the sun, and about as warm too._

_Even if they caught their death, Earl would get them home, at least._

_“Looks like it’s starting to let up,” Earl said, in defiance of all logic. The grey sheets of rain looked exactly the same to Cecil as they had when they’d first crouched under this tree a quarter of an hour ago. “You think you’ll survive, Cecil?”_

_“Hush up.” Cecil pushed Earl lightly and laughed in spite of himself. Two or three years ago he could have kept them busy with a fantastic game. Great explorers, or soldiers waiting to catch the enemy by surprise. But they were too old for that as well._

_People grew and things changed and Cecil didn’t like that one bit._

_“Earl,” he said, before he could stop himself, “Early, promise me--”_

_He stopped._

_“What? Promise what?”_

_But there wasn’t a way to describe it, was there? What he needed was for this to go on forever, for nothing to change; he needed to know that they would be together, in some way, even if it was just to be cold and wet together, waiting for the storm to pass._

_“Well?”_

_“It’s nothing,” Cecil said finally. “Nevermind.”_

_Earl eyed him skeptically but apparently decided to let it go. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s get home before it decides to pick up again.”_

 

The morning after the kiss was pleasant; Cecil cat-stretched, brushing Earl’s face with his hands, then curled forward again, yawning hugely. He rolled over.

“Good morning, Harlan,” he said thickly.

“Morning, Palmer,” Earl said. He sat up and looked out the window instinctively. It was still dark; no one had knocked on the door yet to make sure they were up and moving.

Cecil’s mood seemed to shift downward as they dressed. He didn’t quite shrug off the hand Earl rested on his shoulder, but he did find a reason to be on the other side of the bed as he adjusted the sit of his jacket and pulled on his shoes.

Earl thought nothing of it, at first.

Cecil didn’t sit down to breakfast at the servant’s table, though; the newspapers were late that morning and he had to get them ironed and upstairs before their absence was noted. He did not appear for the lunch trays to leave for their employer (Burton grumbled, but handled them himself) and busied himself with laundry at a time he often found an excuse for a cup of tea.

He wasn’t at supper, either.

There was no denying it. Earl was being dodged. 

He turned over in his creaking bed, waiting for Cecil to come up and at least look at him. But if Cecil slept in the room at all, it was only briefly; the following morning his sheets had been disturbed, but he was nowhere to be found. Earl wondered for a moment if he should check the stables, or the hayloft. Had he found some new lover? Was he embarrassed to share a bed, a kiss so intimate, with someone he didn’t have such affections for?

And why shouldn’t he have affections for Earl, anyway? He wasn’t unattractive, even with the freckles, and the years of helping his father, before the years of hauling pots and potato sacks, had left him quite fit. 

The whole line of thought was ridiculous. Earl combed his hair down and huffed at his own foolishness. There was no point to his vanity, anyway; it was cruel to hope Cecil would think on him with that particular kind of fondness. They’d been friends for years, Earl would do anything he could for Cecil, but his intentions were not romantic in any way. 

By lunch of the second day he was definitely concerned. He played the evening over and over in his mind. Had he overstepped? Cecil had started the kissing bit, should he have stopped it? Had he stopped it too soon and insulted him somehow?

He scorched the bottom of a pan full of potatoes in his distraction, and burned his hand trying to rescue what he could and deal with the mess before Cook noticed. 

 

Cecil was a ghost for the next week. Earl saw flickers of him at the end of hallways, and somehow he got to their room, procured clean clothes, and escaped before Earl could do more than offer a greeting. 

_Fine_. If that was how Palmer wanted to play it, so be it. Earl kept to his work, kept his head down like his father had told him years ago, made a couple of lovely sponge cakes and finally got Cook’s secret to a perfect vanilla custard. 

Palmer always liked sneaking bits of the custard. Earl kept a careful stock of the pantry, and it didn’t seem like Cecil had gotten any of it. _Fine_. Couldn’t bring himself to stick around the kitchen long enough for a treat, that wasn’t Earl’s problem.

It was almost a surprise to see Cecil in the room. He was sitting on his own bed, facing the wall, shoulders slumped, forehead resting on the heel of his hand. 

“You must be Palmer!” he said brightly. “I’m Earl Harlan, we’ll be sharing the room, hope you don’t--”

Cecil turned on him quickly, but not with his usual huff; his eyes were cold and his jaw was set. “Not today, Earl. Not. Today.”

Earl stood in the middle of the room, irritated and uncertain. He was still justified in his annoyance, he was sure of that, but Cecil looked so distraught, just now. This was not a fancy that had crumbled into nothing. He was genuinely wounded. 

“May I sit?” he asked. 

Cecil gestured in somewhat grudging agreement and shifted over on the mattress. Earl sat beside him, but facing away from the wall Cecil was staring at--close enough to reach, trying not to impose. And he waited.

“He said--” Cecil swallowed. “He said he was confused by me. Idiot Cecil, I asked what he meant--I should have just left, I should have known--”

“Who is this, now?”

“The tailor,” Cecil said weakly. “I’ve tried to express my fondness in the past and he seemed receptive. Smiled at me just so, asked me questions.” He laughed a bit. “And I thought, ‘at last’, I thought, ‘someone near home, someone to love with the tips of my fingers, not the tip of a pen’.”

Cecil paused, rested his forehead against his hand again. Earl scooted back slightly so he didn’t have to crane so far to look at him. “What did he say?” he prompted gently. 

“‘You’re called Palmer’, he said, ‘but that can’t be your name, anyone can see you’re no proper Englishman. Where did they find you?’ And then he asked questions about my heritage. Spoke of my family like one speaks of horses, or dogs.” 

“But is Palmer your real name?” Earl asked, before he could stop himself. It was the only name he’d ever heard, and he’d known Cecil as long as he could remember.

Cecil turned his eyes slowly towards Earl, looking ragged under mussed hair. “Yes,” he said, through his teeth. “My mother selected it herself.” 

They stared at one another for a moment. “Sorry,” Earl said finally. “Stupid question. Doesn’t matter.” After another moment’s thought he nudged Cecil and grinned. “Hey, next time he comes ‘round to take measurements I’ll spirit some molasses out of the kitchen and we can pour it all over his samples--”

Cecil leaned heavily on Earl’s shoulder, moving so suddenly that Earl could have thought he’d fainted. Still staring at the wall, he seemed well past the point of tears. He made a wretched little sound in the back of his throat. 

“Is this why you’ve been hiding from me? Because of this tailor?”

Cecil shook his head. 

“Would you care to explain why, then?”

Cecil drew a deep breath and turned his wide brown eyes up to Earl. “I didn’t want to ruin things.”

Earl forced his face into something like relaxation, despite the anger flaring hot in his belly. Was one reasonably innocent kiss from him such a burden? “Oh?” he managed to say, carefully.

“You’ve always just...been there, Earl. You have been a steady and constant friend, the truest a boy could ask for. And I have loved you very much, before I knew what love was, before it was more than a flutter in my stomach, a spark warming my cheeks. Of all the lovers I have lost, could lose, the sting has always seemed survivable. I could likely survive the loss of you, by the strictest definition of ‘survive’. But I don’t like to think of what life would be like, if I managed to drive you away.”

Earl said nothing, but stretched his arm across Cecil’s chest, rubbing absently at his shoulder. 

“You don’t love me,” Cecil said softly, and there was no question at all; he sounded more resigned than anything.

“Not like you love. I’m not sure anyone loves as prolifically as you do, Cecil,” he added with a small smile. “But you are...precious, to me. I did note your absence while you were gone, and I was glad to see you back. Even if you did steal my bed.”

“Earl, this has _always_ been my bed, since I made first footman this was--” Cecil cut himself off with a small and mirthless laugh, a shake of his head. “Stay in it. Tonight. Please? Forgive me for my distance and stay here, with me.”

“First I have duties to attend to. But then, yes, I will spend the night with you.”

 

Cecil waited.

Even if he was angry or upset, Earl would at the very least come back to their room, even if he changed his mind about the sleeping arrangements.

He waited. And while he waited, he thought. He thought of kissing Earl again, of touching him, of letting warmth and friction replace words, convey feelings he wasn’t sure words existed _for_. 

He fidgeted in his bed. He’d never been very good at patient waiting, and certainly not with the promise of kisses and comfort and the warm kitchen smell of Earl in his bed, clinging to his pillow. He dozed off, woke up, rolled over. He tried to position himself as alluringly as possible. 

Finally, the door opened. Earl, silhouetted in moonlight, stripped out of his clothes and crossed the room as quietly as possible. His hands were freezing where they brushed Cecil as he pulled the bedclothes aside.

Cecil rolled over against him before he even had a chance to settle in.

“Didn’t know if you’d be awake,” he whispered.

Cecil bit his lip. Had Earl wanted him to be asleep? “You certainly took your time,” he hissed playfully, to cover his insecurity. 

“Cook hasn’t been well lately, I’ve tried to cover it discreetly. Which means saving some of his tasks for when the rest of the house has gone to bed.”

Earl wrapped his arms around Cecil, pulled him closer, and Cecil smiled against his chest. There was a tense, quiet moment, each waiting for the other to make a choice. 

“Cecil--” Earl said finally. “Is this what you want? You’ve said you love me, you know...how I feel, I don’t--”

“Do you intend to hurt me?” he asked quietly. 

“--know if--what?” Earl blinked, squeezed him closer. “Of course not. You’re my dearest friend, I wouldn’t--”

“Then yes, this is what I want. I’ve cared for everyone I’ve been with, but I have no illusions that they’ve all loved me.” And as a show of good faith, he tilted back his head and kissed him, soft and close-lipped to start. 

Conscience apparently soothed, Earl opened his mouth to the press of Cecil’s tongue against his lips. Earl sounded not surprised, exactly, but grateful in a way that flared warm in Cecil’s chest, hot in his belly. _Bugger this_ , he thought, and pulled himself close against Earl, throwing a leg over his hip to push against him.

Earl’s physical labors had been good to him; his body was strong and warm and vital, though his manner was cautious, almost hesitant. 

Cecil pushed him to his back and slipped on top of him, straddling his hips, smiling at his wet lips shining in the moonlight from their one small window. Earl melted beneath him, arching upward in search of pressure and friction, gasping when he found it. 

Cecil had seen that look before, and realized with a little thrill of heat that Earl was looking for him to take the lead. He slipped his thigh between Earl’s legs and rocked forward, placing his hands on either side of Earl’s head to steady himself as he moved. 

Earl made a choked sound in the back of his throat, and his hands slipped up Cecil’s legs and over his ass, squeezing hard into the soft flesh of Cecil’s waist. Finding a rhythm took an extra minute or two; Cecil found himself uncharacteristically eager, his usual attempt at a cool affect shattered by the strong and willing body underneath him, pushing back against him and hissing swears at the ceiling. 

Earl pulled him close when the rhythm started to break down, gasping and making soft little groaning sounds, finally stopping his noise by sinking his teeth into Cecil’s shoulder as he finished. 

Cecil snickered, then leaned forward to muffle his laughter in the crook of Earl’s neck. 

“What’s funny?” Earl mumbled, running hands down Cecil’s body and back up to his waist. 

“Nothing,” Cecil said, swallowing his giggles, and kissing up the side of Earl’s neck.

Earl had had a late night and would have an early morning, and he was soon asleep. He’d fidgeted away again when Cecil tried to pull close, and that was fine. Earl didn’t know what love looked like, said he couldn’t feel it like Cecil did, and that was acceptable. His love didn’t look like what was in Cecil’s stories, wouldn’t hold him close in the haze of climax or cover him in kisses just because he was in arm’s reach. Earl’s love was ambitious, focused on the goal of pleasure and mutual satisfaction, and Cecil could adjust to that. It was better, he decided, to accept half an affection he could touch with his fingers than a flame of love so distant he couldn’t feel its warmth.

He traced his fingers carefully, whisper-soft, over Earl’s arm and closed his eyes to sleep.


End file.
